by Alison Weir
* * *
—
She was aware, from the reactions of her guests, that her table was becoming renowned. Now that the King had set the precedent and dined with her, and come again three weeks later, others followed suit. Courtiers called upon her, among them Sir Anthony Browne and Sir Thomas Seymour, all angling to be feasted, and she discovered an aptitude for playing hostess.
She found herself increasingly enjoying the food of her adoptive land. “There is no place like England for feeding well!” she declared, serving a generous portion of quails to the Duchess of Suffolk, who visited on a beautiful summer’s day.
“But surely you had good fare in Germany?” the Duchess replied, savoring the rich sauce in which the meat was steeped.
“Yes, I did,” Anna agreed, filling their goblets. “I come from near Cologne, where the food is very rich and varied because it is a great trading place. Next time you come, I will have for you some Sauerbraten, cherries in wine, and pretzels.”
Seeing her guest looking dubious, she laughed. “You will enjoy them all, I promise you!”
In this glorious, golden summer, Anna’s thoughts kept turning to Otho. Twice lately, her eyes had met his and, beyond the unhappiness in his gaze, she could sense a flicker of something else. Another time, his hand—she knew it—had deliberately brushed against hers and lingered a second longer than was seemly. It made her feel, momentarily, something of the pleasure he had once awakened in her. How sad, at just twenty-four, to have experienced physical love only once, and that once furtive and clandestine—and to know she might never experience it again. And there was no one to whom she could unburden herself. Mother Lowe, to whom she confided most things, would be shocked. In her book, honest young ladies did not think about such things, let alone yearn for them. If only Emily were here. Emily would understand, would even giggle about it. But Emily was lost to Anna, far away in Kleve.
She knew there was little prospect of her being able to remarry, even though she was purportedly free to do so. The smallest suggestion that the King might want her back would deter any would-be suitor. If she did marry, the whole distressing business of the precontract might be raked up again.
But did she want to be married? Her only experience of it had ended in humiliation. Free to live her life much as she pleased, she did not relish the prospect of being under subjugation to another overbearing husband. Countless wives accepted their lot without question, but they had not had a glorious taste of what it was to be your own mistress. No, she wanted love rather than wedlock; shocking as it sounded, she wanted a lover! The realization astonished her a little, but she was surprised to find she felt no shame at the prospect of an illicit affair. That heady sense of liberation had clearly had its effect on her. She must be the true granddaughter of “the Childmaker”!
* * *
—
Early in August, Anna left with her household on the little progress to her new properties. The scandal of her divorce had subsided, to the point where she judged it permissible to go abroad. Besides, most people would think she was just another great lady perambulating her domains. So she left behind her chariot and took the handsome litter Henry had given her, riding with Mother Lowe while her ladies, gentlemen, and servants followed behind on horseback or in covered wagons.
She took with her Henry’s permission to make the trip, and for his daughter Elizabeth to join her. When he had last visited, she had asked if the child might come to stay with her, and he had readily agreed. Mrs. Astley, Elizabeth’s governess, was to accompany her to Hever Castle and, surprisingly, Henry had betrayed no reservations about Elizabeth visiting her mother’s family home.
As Anna and her train wended their way southeast down the pretty, leafy lanes of Kent, she found herself approaching Hever with a sense of trepidation, fearing it might be tainted with the tragedies that had befallen its former owners. Five years ago, they had been riding high at court, puffed up with power. Now they were all dead, annihilated by violence and grief, save for the self-effacing Mistress Stafford, whose daughter Kate had served her when she was queen. How those two must regret the loss of their family seat—unless, of course, for them too it was a bitter reminder of the ruin of all they held dear.
Such thoughts filled Anna’s head as she was conveyed through the beautiful undulating countryside and into the hunting park that surrounded the castle. And there it was, nestling in a sheltered valley, a small, mellow-stoned fortified residence surrounded by a moat and lovely gardens.
Anna had been told that Hever had been stripped of the Boleyns’ possessions, and refurnished—with more of the rich pickings from Cromwell’s houses, no doubt. Her sense of foreboding increased. How could Hever be a lucky or happy house, with its bloody connections? In owning it, she feared she was profiting from others’ misfortunes; and that it might be unlucky for her too.
Nevertheless, she had to admire the costly furnishings that had been provided for her. It was better not to speculate on where they had come from. But as she wandered through the rooms and ascended spiral staircases, exploring her new domain, she saw that some traces of the Boleyns still remained. In her bedchamber was a tester bed bearing the initials T.B. and carvings of bulls; doubtless it had been too big to remove. And, in the attic, she found, turned against a wall, a portrait of an elegantly dressed brunette that bore the Latin inscription “Anna Bolina uxor Henry Octa.” Certainly the King would not have wanted such a vivid reminder of the wife he had sent to her death, which was probably why the picture had been left here. Anna wondered if it was a true likeness. If so, Anne had been no beauty. With her long, thin face, dark, watchful eyes, and prim mouth, she bore a strong resemblance to her daughter, although Elizabeth had Henry’s coloring and Roman nose. Yet she had an indefinable something about her, at which the artist had hinted; and Anna liked the portrait. She would have it rehung in the gallery; it seemed a just reparation, for it was only on account of Anne’s tragedy that she herself owned Hever. The picture could always be put away if the King visited.
Anna could imagine the Boleyn family entertaining him in the great hall, with its vast fireplace and screens passage. Maybe Henry had wooed Anne in the family’s private parlor, or walked with her in the long gallery. In the cavernous kitchen, with its well sunk in the floor, feasts had been prepared, and the bustle of everyday life had predominated. All gone now, faded to a distant memory. How quickly—and devastatingly—the wheel of fortune could turn.
Well, she would do her best to bring Hever to new life, honor its past, and banish its ghosts. It really was a most beautiful place.
* * *
—
Anna watched from a window as the little cavalcade crested the hill, and saw the nearly-seven-year-old Elizabeth spur on her palfrey. Wearing her green gown, Anna sped downstairs and opened the main door, calling for her household to assemble with her. There she waited until, with two men-at-arms riding behind, and three waiting women in attendance, Elizabeth and her governess clattered over the drawbridge and into the courtyard. At Elizabeth’s approach, Anna swept a deep curtsey, and the child returned the courtesy as soon as she had dismounted. Her sallow skin had a rosy tinge from being out in the fresh air, and her long red hair streamed loose over her shoulders.
“Welcome, my Lady Elizabeth!” Anna smiled. “It is most kind of his Majesty to allow you to visit me.” She was proud of her growing command of English.
Elizabeth inclined her head regally, as if bestowing the favor of her presence on her hostess, and allowed Anna to lead her into the castle. Here, on trestles in the hall, were laid out cold meats, raised pies, and custard tarts, and a selection of candied fruits that made the little girl’s eyes shine. Anna had ordered them specially, for Henry had warned her his daughter had a sweet tooth.
“We have also a dish from Kleve!” she announced proudly, as they seated themselves at the high table, with Elizabeth in the pla
ce of honor. At Anna’s nod, two servants came forward. One poured wine, watered for their young guest; the other carried a platter piled high with what must look to the child like a greenish-white mess.
“What is that, my lady?” Elizabeth was curious.
“It is sauerkraut,” Anna said. “Cabbage with salt, wine, and juniper.” Another nod, and the servant spooned a generous amount onto Elizabeth’s plate. Elizabeth tasted it.
“Very good!” she pronounced, and began eating voraciously.
Delighted that the visit had got off to a promising start, Anna smiled at Mrs. Astley, the governess, a well-spoken, cultivated lady who clearly adored her charge and was only too willing to sing her praises.
After they had eaten their fill, Elizabeth wanted to be shown around the castle. She had not mentioned her mother, but Anna suspected she was curious to see the house where Anne had grown up. It was half her heritage, after all.
In the long gallery, Elizabeth spotted the portrait. Anna could have kicked herself. She had meant to have it removed for the Princess’s visit, but in the bustle of preparations she had forgotten to give the order.
“It’s my mother!” the little girl cried impulsively, then clapped her hand over her mouth, plainly realizing what she had said. Poor thing, she already knew that Queen Anne was never to be mentioned publicly.
Anna saw Mrs. Astley staring at the portrait with misty eyes.
“I should have remembered,” Anna murmured. “I meant to have it replaced. I have been so busy making ready…”
The governess came to her rescue. “No matter, your Highness. The Lady Elizabeth has seen pictures of her mother. I made sure of it. I think it is important that she knows something of her.”
“Oh, yes,” Anna said, with feeling. “The poor child. And that poor woman.” She shuddered. “That is why I wish to do something for the Lady Elizabeth. I would be a friend to her.”
“Your Highness’s kindness is deeply appreciated,” said Mrs. Astley. The two women exchanged sympathetic looks.
Elizabeth was gazing at the picture.
“She looks so beautiful,” she said.
“It’s a fair likeness,” said the governess.
“I was pleased to find it here,” Anna told them. “No one would talk about her at court.”
“They are too afraid of the King,” Mrs. Astley said quietly. “It would not do to express an opinion.” From the tone of her voice, Anna comprehended exactly what her opinion was.
She took Elizabeth’s hand.
“Come. I have something else to show you.” She smiled, and led the child along the gallery to her bedchamber. “This bed was owned by someone in your mother’s family,” she said.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened.
“Why is it kept here?” she asked.
“This was her home,” revealed the governess, and Anna realized that Elizabeth had not known of Hever’s connection with her mother. “She spent her childhood here, and the King your father came here to pay court to her. Not that she would have him then: she kept turning him down!”
“But he was the King!” Elizabeth looked shocked.
“Yes, and in asking your mother to be his chosen lady, he was placing her above him, to be worshipped like a goddess, so to speak. It was ever so, in the courtly game of love.” Mrs. Astley smiled.
“Not in Kleve!” Anna put in tartly. “There, young ladies have always been made to marry the men their fathers choose for them.”
“And here too that is the custom,” said Mrs. Astley. “It is why lovers sigh for the unattainable.”
Anna smiled. “In my case, it was all signed and sealed before ever I met his Majesty. That is what happens to princesses.”
Elizabeth stared hard at her. “No one will make me marry a man I have not seen, and I will not trust portrait painters!”
Her words gave Anna a jolt. Had the child heard that Henry, having been much taken with Anna’s portrait, had not liked the real thing? Was that why she kept looking at Anna appraisingly?
“You will have to marry the man the King your father chooses, my little lady,” Mrs. Astley said firmly. “When he met your mother, he was already married. He could not ask her to be his wife, so he asked her to be his mistress.”
“His mistress?” Elizabeth asked, running her fingers over the carvings on the bedposts.
“The one who ruled his heart,” Mrs. Astley said, telling only half the truth. “As your lady mistress rules you!”
“And she refused? She was a brave woman!” Anna declared.
“Did my father love her very much?” Elizabeth asked.
Mrs. Astley hesitated. “He did. He thought of no one else. He broke with the Pope and made himself head of the Church of England so that he could marry her, and in the end he won her.”
After that, of course, things had gone badly wrong, so Anna resolved to divert Elizabeth from further questions.
“Let’s find your bedchamber, shall we?” she said. “Come this way.”
“Can’t I sleep here?” Elizabeth asked.
“This is the Lady Anna’s room,” Mrs. Astley told her. “And that bed was probably your grandfather’s; I’ll wager those initials stand for Thomas Boleyn.”
“I did wonder,” Anna said. “Of course you may sleep here, my Lady Elizabeth. I will order it.” She beamed down at the little girl, who looked at her gratefully. “Now, I want to show you the beautiful gardens!”
* * *
—
Anna was aware that wherever Elizabeth went at Hever, there would be reminders of her mother. Anne’s memory was there in every room, every garden walk, every shady arbor. Lying wakeful that night in the bedchamber that was to have been Elizabeth’s, she wondered if the child was sleeping well in her grandfather’s bed. The unfamiliar room, the strange house, the revelations of the day—any or all of it could have unsettled her. Yet she was a self-contained child, more inquisitive than emotional, and did not appear to be affected by the loss of a mother she could hardly have known; but who knew what went on in that little red head?
Anna herself did not like being in the dark at Hever. A shadow cast by a piece of furniture, or the hoot of an owl, could make the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. Always, at night, she kept a candle burning, and had one of her maids sleep on the pallet at the foot of her bed for company. She had never seen or heard anything untoward, but for a child with a vivid imagination, night might bring terrors. Thank goodness the estimable Mrs. Astley was sleeping nearby.
The next morning, Elizabeth said she had slept well, but Mrs. Astley looked tired. After breakfast, she drew Anna aside.
“Madam,” she said, “was it you I heard sobbing in the night?”
“No,” Anna answered, surprised. “It wasn’t the Lady Elizabeth, I hope?”
“It wasn’t. I checked on her. But someone sounded very distressed.”
Anna asked her ladies, and anyone else who had slept within earshot of Mrs. Astley, but no one admitted to having been crying, and Anna believed they were telling the truth. It was a mystery, and she was beginning to entertain the suspicion that the castle was indeed haunted. Could it have been Anne, weeping because she was not there to give her daughter a mother’s love?
* * *
—
The days flew by. The weeping was heard no more, and all too soon, Elizabeth was curtseying farewell.
“Your Grace must come again,” Anna told her. “Your visit has given me great pleasure. I hope you will think of me as your friend.”
“I do, my lady,” declared Elizabeth fervently, extending her hand. But Anna ignored it. Bending, she drew the child into a warm embrace, and kissed her.
“Come back soon!” she said.
* * *
—
That very day, after Elizabeth had gone, Anna was sitting in h
er favorite spot in the gardens, enjoying the sunshine and some rare solitude, when, from behind the box hedge to her rear, she heard an angry exchange of voices. It was Otho and his wife.
“I loved you!” she heard him say. “I loved you with my whole heart, yet you have treated me as if I am nothing, like the dirt beneath your feet. Are you surprised that I no longer want to be anywhere near you?”
“I was merely your trophy,” Hanna snapped, “someone you could parade to the world. Werner loves me for myself.”
Werner? Werner von Gymnich, Anna’s cupbearer? He was a handsome fellow in his way, but by no means as handsome as Otho.
“I loved you truly,” Otho repeated, as if through gritted teeth, “but you chose to betray me, and now you are trying to justify what you did by shifting the blame onto me. Well, Hanna, I am not listening any more. You are not worthy of my love.”
“Who’s shifting the blame now?” Hanna screeched. “It’s her you want, isn’t it? I’ve known for some time that your heart is hers now, as it was before. Well, she’s welcome to you!”
Anna knew she should not be listening to this conversation, but her curiosity had rooted her to the spot. She dared not move now, fearing they might hear her and realize she had been there for some time.
“Would that I could have her!” Otho flared. “She’s worth a hundred of you. I have never seen a woman so brave and dignified in adversity.” Anna drew in her breath.
“Oh, we feel sorry for her, do we? Has she been playing the damsel in distress for your benefit?”
“No, her behavior toward me has always been irreproachable, and you know it! Hanna, let’s end this. We no longer want each other, and living with these constant recriminations is Hell on earth. Go back to Kleve; tell the Lady Anna your family needs you, or whatever you want to say. But, for God’s sake, leave me in peace.”
